“Quite well. She has been a person of consequence since you were a child.” “I couldn't capture the whole world,” mused Lily. Maurice kissed her small fingers. “Some one else will put it in your lap, to keep or throw away as you choose.” The hurried tink-tank of an approaching cow-bell suggested passers. Then a whir of wheels could be heard through tangled wilderness. The girl met his lips with a lingering which trembled through all his body, and withdrew herself. “Now I am going. Are you coming down the trail with me?” Maurice shut the lime-kiln door, and crossed with her a grassy avenue to find among birches the ravelled ends of a path called the White Islander's Trail. You may know it first by a triangle of roots at the foot of an oak. Thence a thread, barely visible to expert eyes, winds to some mossy dead pines and crosses a rotten log. There it becomes a trail cleaving the heights, and plunging boldly up and down evergreen glooms to a road parallel with the cliff. Once, when the island was freshly drenched in rain, Lily breathed deeply, gazing down the tunnel floored with rock and pine-needles, a flask of incense. “It is like the violins!” In that seclusion of heaven Maurice could draw her slim shape to him, for the way is so narrow that two are obliged to walk close. They parted near the wider entrance, where a stamp reared itself against the open sky, bearing a stick like a bow, and having the appearance of a crouching figure. “There is the Indian on the trail,” said Lily. “You must go back now.” “He looks so formidable,” said Maurice; “especially in twilight, and, except at noon, it is always twilight here. But when you reach him he is nothing but a stump.” “He is more than a stump,” she insisted. “He is a real Indian, and some day will get up and take a scalp! It gives me a shiver every time I come in sight of him crouched on the trail!” “Do you know,” complained her lover, “that you haven't told me once to-day?” “Well—I do.” “How much?” “Oh—a little!” “A little will not do!” “Then—a great deal.” “I want all—all!” Her eyes wandered towards the Indian on the trail, and the bow of her mouth was bent in a tantalizing curve. “I have told you I love you. Why doesn't that satisfy you?” “It isn't enough!” “Perhaps I can't satisfy you. I love you all I can.” “All you can?” “Yes. Maybe I can't love you as much as you want me to. I am shallow!” “For God's sake, don't say you are shallow! There is deep under deep in you! I couldn't have staked my life on you, I couldn't have loved you, if there hadn't been! Say I have only touched the surface yet, but don't say you are shallow!” The girl shook her head. “There isn't enough of me. Do you know,” she exclaimed, whimsically, “that's the Indian on the trail! You'll never feel quite sure of me, will you?” Maurice's lips moved. “You are my own!” She kept him at bay with her eyes, though they filled slowly with tears.